Lucien unrolled the parchment under the lantern light, the paper thick and official-looking, the count's seal pressed hard enough to leave dents.
His mouth pulled into that crooked half-smile before he even finished the first line. "Alone? That's cute. He still thinks he's the one giving orders."
Nyx was already curled in his lap in fox form, tail draped over his thigh, purring low against his stomach like a lazy engine.
She lifted her head, golden eyes half-lidded. "We all go. He just won't see us. Simple."
The shack smelled of cold stew and straw that had seen better weeks, the air thick from the small fire dying in the corner.
Elara leaned against the wall, arms crossed, green eyes sharp on the document.
Mira sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging, sharpening the same arrowhead she'd been working on for days like the motion helped her think.
The summons said three days, private audience, no escort, no tricks.
Lucien could almost hear the count practicing the speech in front of a mirror.
He tossed the parchment onto the table. It landed crooked, one corner dipping into a dried soup stain.
"Guy probably thinks showing up solo makes me look weak. Classic boss move. Send the minion, make the threat, wait for the lamb to walk in."
Nyx shifted human without warning, silver-pink hair spilling across his chest as she stretched.
Her tail curled around his waist instead, warm fur brushing skin through the thin tunic. "Lambs don't multiply their own teeth."
They stepped into the Pocket Primordial Universe right after, the portal opening smooth behind the shack.
Silver grass stretched out under the flat glow, mana hitting the lungs clean and cold like the first decent breath after a long bus ride in São Paulo traffic.
One month inside if they pushed it. Plenty of time to turn a polite invitation into something that bit back.
Lucien sat cross-legged in the grass, spreading the multiplied copies of the count's seal he'd already started working on.
The Greed Bloodline took the original pattern, twisted it, copied the wax, the ink, the little imperfections that made it look real.
Ten new documents now, each one showing neat columns of numbers where the count was losing ten percent to "internal adjustments."
The accountant's handwriting, the baron's shaky signature from before, even a few fake stamps that looked too perfect.
Mira crouched beside him, short brown hair falling into her eyes. "Use the accountant as the scapegoat. He's already sweating. Drop these where the right people find them and let the count chew on his own man."
Elara nodded once, fire still flickering behind her eyes from the last conversation with her father. "He deserves it. Let the count think his own house is leaking worse than the roof."
Nyx laughed low, tail flicking. "I like when plans taste like payback before they even start."
The training came after the planning, heavy but steady.
Lucien copied Elara's sword forms first—her stance, the way her wrist snapped on the follow-through, the small breath she took right before the swing.
The Devourer's Gaze peeled it apart, the Greed Bloodline smoothed the edges and multiplied the efficiency until his own swings felt borrowed and improved at the same time.
Mira's archery came next. He watched her draw, release, adjust for wind that wasn't even there, then stole the rhythm and let the Linhagem push it further.
His level ticked up slow, quiet, settling at 128 like it was stretching after a long nap.
The power didn't explode. It just sat warmer in his bones, muscles remembering movements they'd never practiced in this body.
Nyx joined the flow later, teaching a light version of dual cultivation—hands linked, energy looping between them, nothing heavy yet but enough that the air around the four of them got thicker, warmer, the kind of heat that made sweat collect at the small of your back.
Elara's palm pressed against his, her breath steady but her fingers tightening once when the loop spiked.
Mira watched from the side at first, then joined with her own thread of mana, clumsy but eager.
Nyx's tail kept brushing everyone's legs, possessive and playful at the same time.
Later, when they broke for the artificial night, Elara leaned into his side on the silver grass, voice low enough that only he caught it. "If the count tries to touch you… I kill him."
Lucien let out a short laugh, the sound rough in his throat. "No need. I'll just steal his title before he notices it's missing."
She didn't smile, but her shoulder relaxed against his, the bond between them humming warmer.
Mira sat a little closer than usual, knees almost touching his, the new respect in her eyes mixed with that road-hard caution that still hadn't fully melted.
Nyx sprawled across his lap again, head on his thigh, purring while she traced idle patterns on his arm with one claw.
The group felt tighter here, not just power stacking but something messier.
The kind of crooked family that forms when everyone's running from something and ends up stealing the same air.
Lucien stared at the flat glow overhead, random thought slipping in—back home he'd eat cold pizza alone scrolling webnovels about overpowered MCs.
Now he had three girls turning his cheat room into strategy sessions and quiet moments that didn't need big words.
They stepped back out when the time felt right, bodies loose, power settled deeper.
The village had thrown together a small send-off near the fountain—baskets of extra harvest, bread wrapped in cloth, a couple of old knives sharpened better than they had any right to be.
Old Tomás pressed a small pouch of coins into Lucien's hand, cap twisted in his other fingers. "For the road. Not much, but it's ours."
The whole square smelled of fresh wheat and woodsmoke, kids running between legs with sticky hands, the flute from a few nights back playing again, thin but steady.
People nodded at him now, not bowing, just that quiet acknowledgment that the dirt under their feet had started listening when he spoke.
But the messenger who'd delivered the summons was still hanging around the tavern, cloak half-unbuttoned, mug in hand, talking louder than he should.
Lucien caught the tail end as they passed—something about "the count bringing in a special cultivator to test the purple-haired monster."
The man slurred the words, laughing wet into his drink, not noticing the four figures walking by under Mira's light illusion.
Nyx's ears flattened under her hood. Elara's hand found her sword hilt. Mira's fingers tightened on her bow.
Lucien kept walking, the golden scar over his eyebrow itching sharp.
Three days until the audience. The count thought he was setting the stage.
Lucien was already rewriting the script with stolen seals, multiplied lies, and a banner that had started wearing the wrong colors.
He felt the Greed purring low in his chest, warm and patient, the kind of hunger that didn't rush but never forgot a slight.
The village kept celebrating behind them, small and stubborn, baskets getting passed hand to hand while the messenger kept drinking and talking too much.
Lucien's mouth twitched that crooked half-smile as they headed back to the shack.
Some invitations were traps.
Others were just free advertising for the guy who collected everything.
He pushed the crooked door open, the wood groaning like it knew the trip was going to be interesting.
The girls followed without needing to be asked, the air inside still carrying the faint smell of yesterday's stew and the promise of whatever came next.
Three days.
Plenty of time to turn a polite summons into something the count would choke on for seasons.
Lucien dropped onto the edge of the straw mattress, the parchment summons still folded in his pocket, the multiplied documents safe in the Infinite Chaos Treasury, and the pink-silver threads of the stolen banner piece warm against his thigh.
The lantern flickered once, throwing long shadows across the sagging roof.
He leaned back, purple-pink hair catching the light at the tips, and let the Greed settle in.
Tomorrow they'd pack light.
But they'd bring everything that mattered.
The flute kept playing outside, thin notes drifting through the cracks in the walls, while the village celebrated a harvest that shouldn't have happened and a lord who didn't ask permission to exist.
Lucien closed his eyes for half a second, the summons heavy in his pocket like a bad joke that was about to get funnier.
Some people sent invitations.
Others just handed over the keys and didn't realize it yet.